


Listen

by Srhaga



Category: Hellsing
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen, Horror, Psychological Horror, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-13 07:06:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5699440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Srhaga/pseuds/Srhaga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Set post-OVA/manga] A relative calm has settled upon the Hellsing organization, bringing with it a sense of terrible unease and foreboding. The calm before the storm is disturbed by small, seemingly unrelated incidents throughout the world in which the haunting melody of death is sung. Alucard fights for his throne while Seras Victoria merely fights for her life and dignity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Melody

Listen

Chapter One: The Melody

Note: I do not own nor do I harbour any rights regarding the production or writing of Hellsing. Wish I did. But, alas, I don't.

. . .

 

“Listen, I tell you a mystery: We will not all sleep, but we will all be changed- in a flash, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed. For the perishable must clothe itself with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality. When the perishable has been clothed with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality, then the saying that is written will come true: ‘Death has been swallowed up in victory.’

‘Where, O death, is your victory?

Where, O death, is your sting?’

The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

-1st Corinthians 15: 51-58

. . .

Amidst the silence of the broken world and absence of all things living laid a woman breathing. Breathing, but not alive. With every gentle rise of her chest, the books which peered over the sagging and warped bookshelves seemed to scrutinize the abomination which went against nature’s laws. Here the woman laid with an ethereal glow of radiance which would never grow old and fade away; here the woman laid with a body of false fragility that could withstand more than any mortal could; here the woman laid with the metallic odor of the essence of life which ran through all living being’s veins upon her breath; here the woman laid in an eternal paradox: dead, and yet alive.

The fire which blazed brightly against two marble columns shrunk to a low roar as a cool gust blew through the great library. With it, the wind carried the faintest scent of life that had drifted far from a bustling metropolis that resided some distance away. The wind snuck through the room, curling along the musty books and scattering their layers of dust before dropping to the polished floorboards and creeping along, not minding to skirt around the woman.

The woman’s breathing hitched and then stopped altogether. The fire returned to its great height as the woman took in a deep, long breath. Suddenly her eyes flew open as she breathed in again, the lively scent tantalizing her senses. She rose to her feet, her nose in the air as her lids fell closed once again.

As a smile, small and morose, graced her features, her eyes, in all their scarlet, burning glory, focused on the opened window. She took a step, perhaps two, towards the window whose drapes danced in the light breeze. Stopping at the windowsill, the woman poked her head out into the night and relished in the scent that lingered on the wind. She took in another breath, her smile only dipping down further as the bittersweet perfume seemed to entice her and beckon her further out into the night.

“London,” said a voice that seemed to vibrate the very foundations of the old mansion.

The woman froze, her golden bangs falling over her crimson eyes that were wide in surprise. After all this time, she still could not sense his presence.

Footsteps echoed through the grand room, seemingly getting lost in the high walls and domed ceiling. The shadows that rested along the windowsill lengthened and crept along the woman’s gloved fingers. She hastily pulled away as they bit at her un-aging skin through the gloves.  
“What a beautiful night it is.”

The woman, if this had been many, many years ago, would have shrieked and hid behind one of the many bookshelves. But now, after all the years of trials, pain, and victory, the woman merely continued to gaze out at the night which was, indeed, beautiful.

“Hm.” The deep voice broke the silence that had fallen once again. The woman jumped slightly, the suddenness dragging her out of her thoughts. “Why so quiet tonight, Police Girl?”

The woman sighed at the old nickname. She was still unsure if she enjoyed the old pet name or found it annoying. Only time would tell, and they both had more than enough on their hands.

“It’s her,” she said after a moment, turning from the window and moving towards where she had been laying before. She scooped up a book and wiped off a few squirming shadows that had manifested on it. “She should be back by now.”

“My master?”

“Yes, Sir Integra. She’s at an appointment in town. She was supposed to be back by midnight.” The woman settled herself in an armchair that was nestled near the fire. She propped her legs up on the ottoman and leaned into the chair’s cushioned back. She found her marked page within the book that rested on her lap, but could not find it in her to read. There was something about the tardiness of her friend and superior that had her tapping her fingers against the chair’s arm in an anxious rhythm.

“Nervous?” the library’s intruder purred into the woman’s ear.

The woman shifted away from the bodiless voice and rolled her shoulders at the unease that the little ‘trick’ still brought her. She glanced over at the man who now stood before the fire with his back faced to her.

The man was far taller than the mantle, which already belittled the woman, and had broad shoulders that was only emphasized by the red duster that hung loosely around his form. A wide brimmed fedora that was as crimson as the duster heavily contrasted the man’s thick, ebony locks that brushed along his shoulders. His hands were clasped against the small of his back, and the woman just knew that he had his oh-so famous grin plastered across his face.

A clock tolled out, telling the two that midnight was upon them. The woman pursed her lips, her fingers returning to their anxious tapping – this time against the book’s yellowed pages.

“A bit,” the woman confessed after some time, her eyes wandering over the man before her. He turned towards her and a few dark bangs fell before his eyes, obscuring them from view. And she was right; the grin was there in its entire impish, sinister glory. She caught sight of a fang before the man began to speak again.

“Do not worry, Police Girl, my master can fend for herself. Better than you can for yourself.”

The woman tensed in her chair despite knowing that his words were trying to draw a reaction from her. Before she could help herself, she spat out a retort; “Perhaps. Before, back when I was young.”

“Oh?” The man cocked his head and the woman wanted nothing more than to smack off his condescending smirk. “When you were young? Is that so? And, pray tell, what are you now? Old and wise?” He moved forward faster than she could react. He was suddenly towering over her chair, hands on either armrest, his face mere centimeters from her own. His irony breath blew against her face while she stopped breathing altogether, not wanting to give away her inner panic.

She knew this game well. It was what children called ‘chicken’. One child would try to intimidate the others and call them on their bluffs. This was no different. He had been doing it for some time now. Constantly cornering her, trying to coax out some sort of reaction. She denied him the pleasure of her fear she had then and didn’t dare show any sort of the frustration, annoyance, and – she admitted – panic she had now.

The woman held her ground and merely smiled pleasantly, forcing her rigid body to relax somewhat. She steeled her mind against his, not wanting him to peer in and see the panic within.

“Yes, something like that,” she said slowly, her eyes trying to search for his that were still hidden behind the shadows his bangs casted. How could he do that? How could he create a darkness that even she couldn’t see through?

A laugh, cold and cruel, sliced through the momentary silence. She felt herself tense as she clutched her book tighter.

“You? Wise?” he barked as laughter ran through him. He hung his head as his hands left the chair and grasped onto his chest while laughter racked his body. He hollered and snickered before completely losing himself in his maddening cackle. He took a few steps back, doubling over as his dark mirth consumed him entirely.

The woman rose to her feet, tossing her book aside carelessly. Her lips curled over her teeth, her lengthened, razor-sharp incisors visible. No, she would not be treated like this. No, she would not let him belittle her any longer. She was no longer that shy, timid woman who would never dare oppose her master. No, Seras Victoria was now, truly, Seras Victoria. She was, just as him, a force of nature in which nothing could conquer. Fearless and dauntless; powerful and sure. She would no longer bear the sting of his contemptuous insults nor would she settle for being treated as an incompetent, little fool.

“Things have changed, Master,” she hissed his given title as she stalked up to him. The pure anger and aggravation that dripped from her words silenced the cackling man, making him return his eye-less gaze to the woman before him.

Something changed in the air. Tension poured into the library and crashed into the two in wave after wave of crackling electricity that begged for either one to make the first move. Shadows, their origins lying in both the man and the woman, crept forth from the library’s shelves and alcoves. They slithered up the walls and scourged the floorboards, making a point in skirting around one another’s. The tendrils of manifested darkness remained at bay while the man and the woman slowly began to circle one another, calculating the other.

“Nothing has changed, police girl,” he purred above the chaotic whirring and snickering of the shadows that only creatures of the night could hear. The shadows seemed to be mocking one another as they, too, began to dance around the other, sizing them up. Surety was written across the man’s face, only enraging the woman further.

“Oh, but it has.” Her tone was grave, as if warning the man to heed some unspoken threat.

The man’s sure, almost bemused expression slipped into a terrible frown of sudden wrath that contorted the once handsome man’s features into that of a true demon. Eyes, hundreds upon thousands, popped up and swam within his ever increasing ocean of pure darkness. They were crimson and unblinking, and completely focused on the woman.  
Instead of trembling and falling into submission beneath the great flex of power that would have reduced the woman to a babbling mass of fear had this been the past, the woman merely stood taller and smirked over at the man. They continued to step around one another, each running their deck of tactics and tricks through their heads of – according to the man-- how to deal with this situation and – according to the woman – how best to win.

“You have been gone for quite some time, Master. Things have changed; people have changed. I have changed.” Her right hand twitched as fury, greater than any she had seen directed at her in the past by the man, mixed and morphed together with wrath, creating something truly terrible. “I’m not going to be treated like some pathetic servant any longer. I demand – “

“And just who -- ,” he spat out the words, looming closer and closer to the woman through their tension fueled, distorted tango. “—do you think you are? Talking like that to the king? You demand something from me? ME?! Your master?! Listen here, servant. I do not stand to be treated in such a way. You will obey! And this,” the man brushed against the woman as they rounded one another, coming to a stop just a step beyond the other’s back. “This rebellious little tirade ends here. You sound like a brat --,” he scoffed the word. The red eyes bobbing along the surface of his tumultuous shadows were still trained on the woman who was grinding her fangs together in both anticipation and anger. “--no, like an upstart. And do you know what I do to upstarts in my court?”

Just as the man spun on his heels and lunged at the woman, his jaws wide, the doors to the library were flung open and light poured in. The shadows of both the man and the woman instantly receded, melting into the background once again. The woman, who had been crouched and ready for the attack, straightened and threw a hand over her gaze, blocking out the sudden and harsh light. The man bared his teeth and hissed at the intruder, casting his heavy, wrath-filled gaze upon them.

An elderly woman with grey hair and a few stray streaks of fading blond wisps, stood before the man with a look of rage that matched his own. Age-lines were accented as her lips twitched and her brows knitted together in pure fury.

“What the bloody hell is going on here?” she growled, taking a terrific stride forward. When she was given no answer, the woman stamped her foot. It would, had it been any other woman, have been seen as a stereotypical sign of feminine distress, but, since this was Sir Integra, the stamp held the power to quiet even the most noble of lords and command the attention of thousands of soldiers. “I said, pathetic beast: what the bloody hell is going on here?!”

The man straightened and met her gaze, anger still smoldering behind his crimson irises. “I was giving a lesson, my master. A lesson, if I must say, you ruined.”

Sir Integra scoffed. “A lesson? To whom? Miss Victoria? Need I remind you, slave; she is no longer your jurisdiction.”

The words infuriated the man even more, if it were possible. He snarled, showing his lengthened incisors. “All creatures of the night are my jurisdiction.”

“Not when they are owned by me. And you, King Alucard,” she sneered his name. “Are owned by my family’s blood. Now, begone, demon.”

Forced by the command of his master, Alucard was swept up in a great wave of shadows and the library suddenly lightened. The fire began to roar again, and the lights overhead flickered on once more. The moment the last shadow dissipated into nothingness, the elderly woman slumped against the library’s wide doors. She groaned, her head hanging limply before her.

Seras jumped to attention and was instantly at the woman’s side. “Sir,” she rested a hand on the elder woman’s shoulder. As the graying woman leant against her, Seras wrapped an arm around the woman’s waist. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Does he really have to be such an ass? After all these years? You’d think he’d learn,” the elderly woman groaned, lifting her head to look down into the younger woman’s eyes.  
Seras searched Sir Integra’s one eye, looking for any tell-tale signs of distress or anything that needed to be worried over. Instead, all Seras found was one blue eye that had become clouded with age and shone wearily in the light. She felt the other woman’s shoulders sag against her own as if they were weighed down by the world. And, in a way, they did. This woman, who was only ever defeated by age, held within her blood the restraint on the darkest of all demons, the worst of all tyrants. She possessed within the palm of her hand the power to squander all forces of evil, and, in the other hand, the ability to call on the demons that lurked in the night. Though Integra was burdened with the task of playing Atlas at a young, pivotal age, she was reluctant about the thought of breeding an heir. She thought that, with the superbity of youth and the volatile nature that most men with power had, the world and-- worse yet-- the Hellsing Organization would fall into fiery ruin had she produced an heir. When one man was given too much power, they were doomed to insanity.

And for that very reason, Sir Integra had waited and waited, bidding her time until she found it within herself to bring forth a child and new heir to the Hellsing legacy into this world. But she had been too reckless; the time slipped through her fingers like sand, and, much like Poe, she found herself pleading and begging for more time. Fertility had up and left without a second thought, leaving Hellsing in a position in which it had never dared to fear to be in; without the blood bonds, what was left to chain the vampire to a human master?

Sir Integra sighed, shivering despite the warmth the hearth provided the library. Though neither said it, Seras knew that the great Iron Maiden’s body was failing her. Time, in the end, conquerors all. All except for those who were dammed to Hell.

“Seras,” Sir Integra whispered. The younger woman brought her elder closer, practically holding her in her arms. “I...,” she trailed off, not able to voice her concerns for once. The fear and uncertainty of the future brought her at a loss for words. She shook her head and tore her eye away from the woman with the scarlet gaze, looking towards the opened window instead. “Seras, you mustn’t let him hold power over you.”

Seras was quiet for a moment before responding, “Well, Sir. It’s not that easy. He’s still my master. Time and his absence didn’t mean anything. My blood still answers his.” She had grown quiet at her last words and had set her sights on the window as well. From here, at the opposite end of the library, Seras was still able to see far beyond the pristinely cut lawn and over the tops of the dense forest all the way to the outskirts of London. The very same London that was a husk of its former self, a disgrace to its former glory.  
“Really? Even after that?” Seras stiffened beside Sir Integra, her expression pointedly neutral when Sir Integra glanced down at her out of the corner of her eye.

“Yes…” Seras locked her jaw, her eyes narrowing at even the mention of that. No, Seras certainly did not want to reminisce about things that were better left in the past. Sir Integra leaned a bit away from the shorter blond who had become as still as a statue. She shouldn’t have mentioned it, Sir Integra knew, but it was an inescapable fact that that happened. How much longer would she have to skirt around the subject of that gruesome tale just for the sake of Seras playing ignorant to the sins she committed? How much longer would she pretend –

“Besides,” Seras’ voice cut through the silence that had grown between them. “I think that, even if he wasn’t my master, it’d still have to answer to him. He is the king, after all.”

“Whatever that’s good for.” Sir Integra sighed, shifting what little weight she was supporting without Seras’ help between her legs, trying to ease the strain on her hips. “He hasn’t been around to govern his domain for 130 years. He’s lost his right to call himself the king.”

“No, it doesn’t work like that.” Sir Integra turned towards Seras, her expression demanding an explanation. Seras didn’t notice, however, for her gaze became unfocused as she drifted through her memories, picking out things here and there from the few times she had encountered true vampire society.

When she had come across those within the true realm of night who submitted to the rules of the darkness and functioned like a normal society, Seras had been picked out time and time again as the fledgling of the great and powerful king. She hadn’t have told them her name, and yet they knew. When asked how, they had responded – each, on every occasion – that it was because of the aura of dark power that radiated from her. The vampires had said that it was not dissimilar from the king. It was impossible to miss, they said. And because of her known relation to the king, she had been both held in high regard as well as feared by many of the vampires and other creatures of the night. Though the No-Life king had not been seen in over a century, the mere mention of his name inspired loyalty, respect, and fear alike in the un-beating hearts of all.

“How so?” Sir Integra said impatiently, tearing Seras out of her contemplative and nostalgic state.

“Oh, right. Well… Well, I just get a feeling that master is someone you can’t easily forget.”

Sir Integra nodded, knowing full well what Seras meant. Yes, she was absolutely right. Even after 30 years of waiting, the woman of steel still had the feeling that Alucard’s presence lurked within the darkened corridors of the Hellsing manor. He was a creature of epic proportions whose absence was never fully felt. The darkness left in his wake gave one the impression that he was never truly gone, that he would one day return and wreck havoc once again. Even the faintest of shadows he casted held the power to burn his ferocity, power, and sovereignty into one’s mind, forever instilling the sense of fear and foreboding.

“Sir,” said a soft voice from behind the women. Sir Integra instantly leapt out of Seras’ arms, not wanting a soul in the world to see her in such a weak position. Sir Integra abhorred every and all the social climbing men who were power hungry – and were quite transfixed with her seat in the Round Table – that would constantly pester the old woman with their ‘worrying’ of her old age. Oh, she knew that those bottom feeders were all too eager for her to keel off so that they could take her place. Bastards, the lot of them.  
But, instead of some youthful aristocrat, it was one of the two retainers assigned to Hellsing not long after the Battle of London and Walter’s betrayal.

“Ah, Yuri, you had me worried. I had you pegged for one of those youths.”

Yuri Antipov was a tall, lean man who was in his early forties. He, and his identical—save for a scar that marred Yuri’s jaw – brother, were found in the line of battle some years ago. They had been younger then, still in their early twenties, and had been rebels fighting against their abusive government. The two had been inseparable since birth and because of this they had developed a style of fighting that was both unique and deadly in the extreme. The two knew one another’s bodies and limits so well that, when in combat, they functioned as one. Alexandre, the other brother, specialized in hand-to-hand combat while Yuri was far more than efficient in the ability to use and throw daggers. Their most deadly technique, though, came from the fact that the two were spawned of both a human and a fae-like creature which had the ability to shift from a humanoid appearance to that of its true self; a balaur. A balaur was a creature related to the common mythical dragon. But, as Seras found out the hard way, dragons were truly not mythical. Rare, but far from mythical. When in battle, the twins came together to merge into one being; a polysepalous balaur with staggering height and rows upon rows of razor-sharp teeth.

When all was said and done, the twins had been given an invitation to join Hellsing once the revolution had been quelled. The two agreed and rose quickly through the ranks, proving to be two of the most important assets of the Hellsing agency. After some time, the two were given a choice of serving under an off branch of the Hellsing organization or to work directly for Sir Integra as personal assistants, advisors, and retainers. They had agreed to the later, for they were fully loyal to the hardened leader. Now the two aided Sir Integra in running the organization and sifted through much of the heaps of paperwork to lessen the stress on the elderly woman. They were also, just as Walter had been before his devastating turn of heart, a trump card that Sir Integra kept with her at all times.

“No, Sir, not at all,” said the man, clasping his hands behind his back. “ Just checking in to remind you of a conference you are holding in the west end’s drawing room with Sir Walsh.” His accent, thick as the day Sir Integra whisked him and his brother out of the throes of revolution and war, was naturally gruff, but Yuri’s soft tone made his voice more enchanting than anything. His words seemed to dance through the air, enticing all with its foreign melody. “He’ll be here in twenty minutes, but, knowing his lack of punctuality, I say that you have about forty minutes before his arrival.”

“Walsh?” inquired Sir Integra, fishing through her pockets in order to procure a cigar. When her search was proven to be in vain, Yuri stepped into the library and handed Sir Integra a cigar and held out a lit lighter. Taking a deep inhale of the noxious fumes, the woman nodded, rubbing her fingers against the bridge of her nose in stressed aggravation. “Yes, yes. I remember. He’s here to talk about defense, no doubt. That, and a bloody heir.”

Yuri nodded, returning both the case of cigars and the lighter to an inner pocket of his suit’s jacket. The twins, despite Seras’ teasing that they looked like the Men in Black, dressed in ink black suits that were impeccable and always without stain. It didn’t seem to bother either of them that the suits were always completely shredded once they merged and transformed into their true self.

“Yes, Sir. Do you have any special requests regarding preparations for his arrival?”

“No.” Sir Integra parted her lips slightly, letting the smoke leisurely float up and away. “Walsh is the one bringing the reports this time. All I have to do is sit there and think about how best to annihilate the enemy.”

“Charming,” Yuri said, sarcasm dripping from his voice as good natured mirth turned the corners of his mouth up in a smile.

“Yes, truly.”  
. . .

The curtains were drawn open as the grandfather clock tolled out the passing of some midnight hour. Moonbeams streamed into the quaint drawing room that held within it two chairs and a solitary table that were pushed towards the far window and had, framed around a center rug, couches and plush armchairs sparingly placed about. A fire had been started for the late fall air seeped in through the walls, bringing with it the bitter sting of cold. A woman, old and graying, sat within an armchair facing the fire and puffed away at her cigar, careful that her suit didn’t catch any stray ashes. Two men, identical in nearly every regard, stood off to the side, blending in with the background of the room. Behind them, in the lurking shadows, was a young woman who, every so often, would peak her head out from the wall to properly survey the elderly woman’s state of impatient annoyance.

“Am I late?” came a gruff voice from the doorway.

“As always,” Sir Integra replied without looking over at the man and his escort. The man came to rest in the armchair beside Sir Integra’s, sighing in relief as he settled within the soft cushions. Time was, obviously, as rough on his body as it had been for Sir Integra. “Sir Walsh,” Sir Integra said, snuffing out her cigar on a tray resting on the chair’s arm. “To what do I owe the pleasure? There must surely be a need great enough for you to demand a meeting at the last moment.”

“I wouldn’t say that three days is the last moment. But, nonetheless, I do bear news.” The man shifted in his seat, waving over his broad shouldered escort and taking from the young man a briefcase. “Have you caught wind of the events happening within the countries of Southeast Asia?”

Sir Integra raised a brow as one of the twins collected the tray and spent cigar. “No. That land is not under our protection. Why should I?” It was true; the Round Table’s, the Protestant Church’s, and even the Queen’s domain did not stretch far from England. All news of the outside world was, for the most part, casted aside in favor of fighting the supernatural on the home front. But, every so often, a client or a far off branch of the protestant church would request assistance in dealing with the pesky creatures of the night. Sir Integra had been lucky for the past few years in terms of long-distance missions. It was, as Sir Integra feared, as if all the chaos was gathering itself together and waiting and plotting, preparing for the right time to strike and take the world by surprise and force.

“Well,” the man entered the security code and flicked open the case, “You should have. We fear that the world may be going to Hell. Again.” Sir Integra stiffened as a shadow, along the wall where the fire’s shadows danced, paused, listening intensely.

The man shifted through a stack of papers before handing a few shaky camera shots over to Sir Integra. The iron maiden grimaced at the scenes of fire and madness, of obliteration and towns rendered to dust.

“What is this?” she demanded, studying one picture intently.

“That one is of a village in South Vietnam. We had a team stationed there for about a month or so. We were informed about these creatures, under the cover of night, coming and raiding whole villages. Sounds like vampires? That’s what we thought. So I sent in a team. Highly trained, seen the face of combat before. The mission was created out of simplicity and had been pegged as a one-and-done mission. Everything was going routine until…” The man pulled out a small, portable laptop from the briefcase and closed the case, setting the laptop atop of it.

“This is a video one of the members of the team sent in before we lost contact with them four days ago.”

From Seras’ position within the wall, all she could gather from the video was the sound of heavy panting, loud footfalls, machine guns being fired left and right, swearing in a multitude of languages, and a noise that made her clasp her hands over her ears. It was horrible, the noise. It was the shriek of a banshee combined with a whirlwind of demonic chanting. It was indescribable. Whatever it was forced Seras to fall from her hidden spot along the wall and onto her knees, crying out in pain as she bled from her ears. Even through the terrible quality of audio from the video, the shrieking that accompanied the sounds of tearing flesh and spurts of blood made Seras double over, gripping her head as if it were about to explode.

“Seras? Seras!” Sir Integra flew from her chair and ran over to the vampiress that was contorting in on herself as the terrible, terrible shrieking continued and only seemed to amplify in intensity. Sir Walsh had risen from his chair, the laptop and briefcase in hand as he watched in horror as thin streams of blood continued to poor from the undead woman’s ears.

It burned. It burned from the inside out. It was if someone had ignited Seras’ soul on fire. It felt as if it were eating its way out of her. The pain was unbearable. Her claws dug into her skin as she screamed over and over again; “Make it stop! MAKE IT STOP!”

Two gunshots rang through the air and the relief was immediate. Seras slumped against the floor and the elderly woman as Sir Walsh stood in pure petrifaction. No longer in his hands were the laptop and briefcase; instead, they both were scattered around the room, completely decimated by the gun too powerful to be wield by a human.

Standing between the women and Sir Walsh was the crimson clothed vampire who had sprung up between the floorboards upon hearing the God awful shriek and the cries of his fledgling. “Is that the kind of music the kids are into these days?”

No-one laughed. Instead, the only one who even dared move was Sir Integra. She rose slightly and casted her furious gaze upon the horrible, facetious, contemptuous, narcissistic, egotistical vampire.

“What the bloody hell was that for, Alucard?!”

Mirth was written across his features as he swung his gun between his nimble fingers. “Well, someone had to stop the screaming or else the police girl would have bled out.”  
At the mention of her name, Seras glared up at her master from where she was healing—slowly, for that matter—on the floorboard, amidst the pool of her own blood.  
Sir Integra glanced down at the vampire who was slumped against her lap, nursing her ears that had blood drying along the folds and creases. Worry flashed across her features. Seras Victoria was not a woman to feign or to exaggerate pain, so an outburst like this could only have been produced by something powerful and… otherworldly.

Seras straightened, climbing to her feet before extending a hand to Sir Integra. The woman waved the hand away though she found that the simple act of rising to her feet had her groaning under her breath. Sir Integra smoothed an unseen wrinkle in her suit as she strode over to the remains of the laptop and the briefcase. She toed through the smoking bits of hard drive and faux leather.

“What were the creatures that destroyed the unit? I presume they were not vampires. And,” she added, glancing over at Seras, “what about those creatures had that effect on my soldier?”  
“Well,” Sir Walsh thawed, some of his boyish charm returning along with the color in his cheeks. “We don’t know, actually. We ran it through some screen tests, but found no matches –“

“Wait, you didn’t hear it?” Seras inquired, cutting off Sir Walsh. The two knights turned towards her, both their interests piqued.

“Hear what?” Sir Integra’s shoes crunched over a letter key.

“That – that shrieking. It was bloody terrible. You didn’t hear it?”

Sir Walsh sent Sir Integra a sidelong glance before crossing his arms, stepping out of the pile of rubbled laptop bits. “No, Miss Victoria. We didn’t. What was it like, the shriek?”

“It is different to each being of the night,” said the mocking voice of Seras’ master. Everyone in the drawing room, even the twins, turned their attention to the elder vampire whose face was contorted in cruel glee. “It is a melody only able to be heard by those who walk beneath the moon. To some, it resembles the screams and cries of their perished loved ones. To others, it may sound like their own anguished pleas of mercy. It is, in theory, the culmination of one’s worst fears mixed with the most painful memories they have lived. It is the sound of Hell.”

Seras noticed, as her master took two steps towards the middle of the room, that, along his slender neck, a trail of blood had dried. The lobes of his ears, too, were dyed a faint crimson.

“It is the rallying cry of war in which every creature is rendered inept. It can slip through the most impenetrable of minds, the most impregnable of walls. It is poisonous and all-consuming. It is the singing of a race thought to have fallen extinct. But, evidently, they have risen once again from the ashes of ruin. And, my Master,” Alucard purred, relishing in the face of a newfound enemy, “it just so happens that I have a bone or two to pick with them. It seems that the old rulers of the night wish to oppose the king that overthrew them. It seems that a war against the crown is looming over us.”

. . .

AN: Hello there! If you've made it here -- congrats! In the further chapters of this story, I will be surfacing events in which happened during Alucard's appearance as well as incorporating the new threat. As you may have noticed, this will have the vampiric and general supernatural society posed as a general plot idea. Oh! I nearly forgot! My view on Seras is, after the 30 year gap, that she developed some, er, balls. She has always been a brave and gutsy girl, but now Pip has rubbed off on her so much that she has even developed the nerve to stand up to her master. Speaking of that, I purposely made Alucard and Seras' relationship tense and strained. The two have quite a bit to work through (most of it being that Alucard still expects Seras to be a rather submissive servant who constantly has her tail between her legs, even after the London incident). This is just going to be a rather fun relationship to navigate. Also, I really -- oh, wait! I shouldn't give everything away! But, gentle reader, there are going to be some rather fun action scenes in here. *Wink, wink* Alright, last freebie!


	2. Chapter 2

“There is a what?!” bellowed Sir Integra. “There is a war?! Another one?!” Sir Walsh backpedaled as Sir Integra took a terrific stride toward her servant, her thin frame nearly shaking with rage. “How dare you claim that there is another war! We have only begun finishing on cleaning up the last war. And now you say that there is another to be waged? Bullshit! What information do you have to support your claims? What facts do you base this on? There must be some because the pure audacity you posses to even consider claiming war within my presence—“  
Alucard raised his hand as if to silence the hardened director of the infamous Hellsing Organization. Sir Integra snarled, stalking up to her servant whose shadows still lapped around his ankles.  
“Oh, no. No, do not push me off this time, slave! I shall not be ignored! I demand to know all there is about this acclaimed war.”  
Alucard cocked his head, simply smiling at the woman before him. “Is that an order, my Master?”  
“I- wha- of course it is, you imbecile!”  
“Hm,” Alucard’s grin became mad as he bowed his head, crossing his arm across his chest. “As the word of my master bids, I shall deliver.” The great vampire straightened, his shadows calmly settling where a normal man’s shadow would lie. “It is not so much a war as it is a retaliation against my power—a revolution, if you will.” Behind him, the twins stiffened, their attention fully piqued. “You see, my Master, I was not the first to rule the un-life. Before me stretched an ancient lineage—a dynasty—of night creatures that ruled over my domain and did as I did; sought audiences, devised court systems, emplaced laws and customs, provided order and structure, and the like. The only conceivable difference between they and I was their greed. You think me to be a creature who readily dabbles in the unholy vices, but I am a saint compared to those creatures.  
“There was once a time when the creatures of the night ruled over the world. It was long, long ago. Before either of our times. When night and day were irrelevant, as was time. When man was taking his first, shaky steps toward his stained glory he has now proclaimed for himself. It was a time of myth and fables, a time where legends were forged and heroes were born. It was then that a race so ancient that their name has long since been forgotten governed over the night.  
“They, with their natural superiority over all other creatures—even the ancestors of vampires--, were granted complete sovereignty over the realm. In their tyranny, they grew bored. Bored of the monotony of life that came with a peaceful domain. So they sought war. Not any small, respectable war, but rather a large, all-consuming war. Much like our old antagonists, Millennium, who sought nothing but the world and their demise.”  
Sir Integra stiffened at the mention of Hellsing’s old adversary. A force that never truly died away. Because… how can one truly destroy an idea?  
“What does that have to do with today?” piped in Sir Rob Walsh who had found himself seated within the armchair once again. “A war of the past does not define today.”  
“Oh,” Alucard’s smile carved its way from ear to ear so that each fang glistened in the fire’s light. “You should know more than anyone that war is what paves history. It is the edge that defines one’s reign. History is written by the victors, and the victors come through the gore of war. War is the most vital part of life. It is the balancing of the scales of life; take some, lose some. It is the waging of corrupt minds in the hope of some idealistic utopia—because each side believes their cause to be just and right. It is only the winners who can say that their cause was the true one. No-one wishes to listen to the beaten drunk at the end of a bar. No, people wish to listen to those decorated head to toe in metals.”  
“Yes, b-bu-but,” Walsh stuttered, falling submissive beneath the elder vampire’s gaze.  
“But how does this war define today, exactly?” Sir Integra finished for him, folding her arms across her chest. Her fingers tapped against her forearm, her tell-tale sign that she was due for a new cigar.  
“Ah,” Alucard returned his crimson gaze to his master. “How? Why, just look around you.”  
Sir Integra merely held out her hand, which a lit cigar was placed into by one of the twins, and inhaled. Upon exhaling a plume of smoke, she raised her brow, clearly asking for an explanation.  
“Hm. Why do you believe the world fears the darkness so much? And yet finds it so tantalizing? What is it about the night that appeals to the shadows within our minds? Do you know?”  
“People fear what they do not understand,” said a voice from behind the great vampire. He turned, his brows raised. “And yet people crave the unknown.”  
“Ah, police girl. Is that the wisdom that old age has given you?” Sarcasm dripped from every word as the woman’s shadows ran up and down her form, cleansing her uniform and skin of any trace of blood. “But nonetheless, she is correct.”  
Alucard’s hands came together at the small of his back as he gave a look to each human within the room. “Yes, the rulers of yesteryear fought a war against the very elements of the world; death against life, and darkness against light. It was a war of Yin and Yang, of two opposites interlocked within battle. Because, along with the rulers of the no-life, were those that were somewhat corporeal manifestations of the light. Angels, as people call them today.  
“And so, their supremacy of the world was not enough. Instead, these villainous creatures took to waging a war between Hell and Heaven. Not much is known of this war aside from that, in the aftermath, man was left with the world upon its shoulders. The benevolent spirits seemed to recede from the world while those that ruled the no-life were banished from existence. It was then that the creatures of the no-life took to the night. It is said that it was a final curse of the war. That, because of the audacity of the creatures of the no-life in seeking a war against its Yang, they were forced to march beneath the cold glow of the moon.  
“In the end, it was as if neither side existed. Erased forevermore from traceable history were those that once ruled the no-life, and gone ever since are those divine sprits that descended to earth to wage war. The only records and stories exist through spoken word. From those that came from lineages that fought in the wars and from those ancient enough to have lived through them themselves.”  
The room was quiet for a moment. Only the faint echo of the vampire’s words and the dull crackle of the fire disturbed the tense silence.  
“And no-one has heard of them since then until…” Sir Integra started, the face of a new era of grievances and battle already seeming to weigh upon her shoulders.  
“… Until now.” Alucard’s voice flitted through the air as he dispersed into a swirl of shadows and whispers of horror.

. . .

From the howling wind and whips of rain and snow alike came a woman seeking reprieve in the form of a desolate and forlorn alleyway. From beneath the woman’s fur-rimmed hood, she saw within the alleyway several snowdrifts that were being eaten away at by puddles of water. Alongside the graffitied walls were dumpsters that had heaps of trash spilling out the tops of them. A wisp of wind found its way into the alley, blowing aside the snow that had been clinging to the dumpster’s side. From where the snow once was now read: “PROPERTY OF CARDIFF” in large, bold letters.  
Skirting around a puddle, the woman came to rest before one wall of the alley where the bricks seemed to sag in. The woman removed a glove, revealing an inhumanly pale hand. She brought it to her lips and hesitated a moment. The woman parted her lips and plunged her fangs into her wrist just as another gust of wind threw her hood back, revealing golden locks that flew in the wind and scarlet eyes that burned through the night.  
Blood began dripping from the bite on the woman’s wrist. She stepped back, holding it before her as she chanted in some long forgotten, guttural language that would have raised the hair on the back of anyone’s neck. The blood stained the slush beneath her for several moments before a low shifting was heard. She stepped back several feat as the ground gave way to an unlit stairwell that dug far, far beneath the earth’s crust. From within, the faint sound of a trumpet and swing music drifted forward, as did the smell of drink and death.  
Descending into the darkness of the stairwell, the woman found the reprieve she had sought from the snow and bitter cold – though, nowadays, the cold never did bother her much. Once she was in deep enough, the slab of concrete slid back in place over her head. She kept descending; foot after foot, step after step into the dank underground. The woman paid no mind to the whispers that seemed to seep into the darkness from the walls, nor did she send a glance at the torches that, when she took her first step in a long, dank corridor, sprung to life with a dark, lurid glow. She passed through the corridor soundlessly. Only the glow of her eyes in the faint light showed there to be anyone at all.  
After what could have been kilometers or even a few steps, the woman came upon a crossroad that had four mouths of other corridors connected to a common room of sorts. Here, several outdated pieces of furniture laid misshapen and sad, the years reflecting heavily upon them. A few warped and dirtied posters for events that had passed a great many years ago were hung precariously along the walls.  
The woman stopped a moment beside a frayed and rotting armchair, her nose twitching as she pushed past her human sense and dipped into her vampire side. Her eyes flashed as she turned in the direction of the bitter scent of drink. She took the middle passage of the four not yet taken and soon came upon another staircase, this one ascending. The woman traveled down several more corridors, rounded a few corners, and chose a dozen other passages before entering a corridor that echoed the soft beat of a jazz song off its stone walls.  
The woman paused by a grand oak door, her hand hesitating above the metal knocker. Within, conversations were being had and drinks were thrown back. Within, a band with a steady beat and a daring saxophone riff were entrancing the patrons with the darkened beauty of the night. Within, species intermixed and mingled as one, sharing cultures and creating memories. Within, a face resided which the woman had not seen for a great many years.

At a table by herself, Seras sat with a mug before her and her jacket beside her. Her fingers tapped along to the swing of the band while her head swiveled side to side in search of an old face. With each passing moment, Seras couldn’t help but feel paranoia creep up on her. Where were they? What was taking so long? Had they found their way alright? Had something happened? Was she being blown off? What if –  
No, she thought, ceasing her tapping and pushing back in her seat with a resigned sigh. Think positive. Nothing’s wrong. You’re just nervous, you silly little fool. But why? It’s only him.  
“Only him? Oh, how cruel. I’m offended. Terribly, I’m afraid.”  
A smile stole its way across Seras’ features at the melodic sound of an accent ingrained forevermore within her memories.  
“Oh, yes. Only him, I’m afraid. A pity, really. You should see this tosser – a real pushover, he is,” Seras said, glancing up at the man.  
The man was leaned against a wall, snowflakes still somehow dusting his suit jacket’s shoulders. His hair, curly and voluminous, sprung out however it pleased – as rebellious as he was. Everything about the man screamed rebellious – not to mention flirtatious; from the crinkles around the dark eyes and the one arched brow to the tight slacks and 70’s propaganda t-shirt covered with a suit jacket, he was, all in all, a rebellious little fuck. Wise, but unruly. Strong, but foolish. Every idea of his contrasted with his very next. Volatile some might have said, ingenious said Seras.  
With her insult, the man tilted forward, mock hurt written across his features. “Oh, how rude! The audacity! The vulgar! My, my!”  
“Vulgar? I haven’t sworn yet. You’re getting sloppy.”  
“No, you haven’t yet. We’ll get you there, though.” With a wink for good luck, the man kicked out the seat opposite of her and plopped down. He leaned back, stretching his arms overhead and his legs beneath the table. Seras groaned and knocked his foot away when the man seemed to not give the slightest damn about personal space.  
The man paused in his stretching, causing a passing fae creature with deep-set purple eyes and scales upon their forearms to duck in order to dodge his arms. He tilted his head, his eyes – as black as the night itself – assessing her. He slowly collected his appendages, a look of seriousness settling upon his features. He leaned forward over the table, elbows digging into the stained wood.  
“Seras… Seras Victoria. Look at you. You’ve grown, I can tell. Look at you,” he said, waving his hand toward her. She shook her head, resting her own arms atop the table.  
“Oh, no. Let’s not start this. I’m good without a reca –“  
“Hush, it isn’t up to you. But, look at you. Really look at you. You’ve had some changes over the past two – or has it been three? – years. They are weighing upon you.” He grew quiet for a moment, his eyes roaming freely. A certain captain within Seras’ mind twitched in annoyance.

Calm down, Pip.

Oui. Calm down when another man is looking at your woman, grumbled the Captain within her mind. Seras had the vague sensation of the Captain pacing back and forth, rubbing at the scruff upon his chin.

And just where have you been? You’ve been quiet for the last few days, Seras thought, her eyes never straying from the silent man before her.

I’ve been sleeping, mignonette.

For three days? Either way, you’ve missed a lot, Captain. A lot. But, I’m not going to explain now. I’m here to catch up with an old friend. Like him or not, he’s my priority at the moment. Back at the mansion, I’m sure Sir has a few things for you to do. Security improvements, double layers of –

“Seras?” The man before her snapped his fingers, drawing her out of her thoughts. “You were thinking – well, you were speaking. To your familiar, weren’t you? Your face always screws up in annoyance when you do.”

In her mind, Seras heard Pip utter a few unforgivable curses before his consciousness vanished almost completely, instead taking to the nearly corporeal manifestation of her shadow that encased the Hellsing Manor. Seras rolled her shoulders, trying to dispel the prickling sensation that always spread from the small of her back to the nape of neck whenever her most faithful – and only – familiar left her presence. Even when sleeping, the Captain held within him a certain security that both reassured and strengthened Seras. He was still with her, yes. But, it was as if his consciousness drifted away to some foreign place that a sliver of her soul resided, but not her true, full self. It was difficult to explain, the sensation. It was like scratching an itch you never knew you had. Inexplicable.

“My familiar – Pip? Yes, I was. Come on, you know I don’t like you messing around in my head.”

“Then stop me,” he said, arching a brow in challenge.

“I can stop everyone else, but not you—“  
“Oh, my dear Seras! How ashamed I am of you to believe that I am a part of this ‘everyone else’. You should know more than anyone else that I exceed all others in skirting around –“

“I think you mean being a nosy, sly little –“

“People’s defenses. You may build a wall, but there shall always be a hole somewhere – a lose brick in the foundation,” he concluded, waging a finger. “And you mustn’t interrupt me, Seras.”

“Oh? And why not? Why shouldn’t I?” she challenged, leaning forward so that she could snatch the wagging fingers between her forefinger and thumb.

The man narrowed his eyes, lightly tugging against her hold. When she failed to concede and let him go, he began to tut and tore his finger away. And what did he do? He began to wag his fucking finger again.

“Seras, Seras, Seras. You may be the princess of our great – and, seemingly, late – king, but that doesn’t mean you get privileges. Don’t become the spoiled brat you are expected to be.” The man stopped the wagging of his finger when Seras’ expression soured. “Oh, I am merely being facetious, Seras.”

When she didn’t respond, the man cleared his throat and began speaking again; “But yes, let me have my look at you. Hm. Your hair is as light as ever – you put the stars to shame. Your eyes are as blood red as rubies. Your figure is as womanly as ever – eternal youth has gifted you that way. But that is all physical. Hm. Your hair is a mess. Strands all over the place. You’re in a rush, aren’t you? You haven’t had your shadows tidy you up, you’re distracted. You’re eyes are wide and cautious—you aren’t circumspect by nature, Seras. You’re too much like me that way. Headstrong and brave. Your figure, your posture… is too posed. You seem tensed. Much like a gazelle is before the lion pounces and devours. You have always been a tiger, so why become the prey? What is it, my dear? What worries you so much?”

Through the psychoanalysis, Seras squared her jaw, fighting off the urge to beg him to quiet. His words were true, yes. But they were not words for the wrong ears to hear. She thought she tidied up nicely, but, apparently, she hadn’t. He saw through her just as he always did.

“Worried? That’s putting it lightly. I’m past that. I’m in shock at the moment, actually. I haven’t decided what I feel. I – I… There’s just so much that’s happened in the last few weeks and now – now there’s this new threat. This new unknown force. This – this – eugh! Another fucking antagonist!”

“And there it is, the first swear.” His grin faltered as Seras ran her fingers through her tangled locks, trying to soothe her frayed wires she didn’t know she had. “Another antagonist? A new threat, you mean? For Hell – ehm. Your organization?” Seras was right; the wrong ears were all around them. Hellsing was not something to bring up when at a tavern filled to the brim with all walks of the no-life.  
“Yes, for my organization. And for – for… for my… for our… for the –“

“For the king, she means,” hissed a cool voice that made both parties jump in their seats.  
Silence fell upon the tavern as all eyes came upon a man who took a step forward from the lengthening shadows that covered the wall near Seras’ table. Each click of the man’s heels rung off of the high walls and rock-lined ceiling. The band’s mic screeched loudly with feedback. No heads turned in the direction of the mic acting up or towards the frantic band member who rushed forward to deal with it, both embarrassed and terrified. Each no-life creature, drunk or not, had their full attention trained on the man whose duster and hat were as crimson as blood.  
The man, with deep, scarlet eyes that bore into any all those that dared cast a glance directly at him, halted beside Seras with his hands clasped behind his back. Seras’ eyes closed in frustration – so much for remaining inconspicuous.

As if from some unspoken cue, all the no-life creatures rose as one from barstools, the floor, perches along the walls, booths, and chairs. As one, they bowed deeply toward the crimson cloaked man, muttering words from a language born of the night. As one, they dipped further and further till the man waved his hand much like a conductor would to conclude a symphony.  
“You may rise,” said the deep, resounding voice of the man beside Seras. Each creature did. Not one dared to look away. “I came here to listen to music, not the silence of the grave. Move! At once! Let the no-life continue in its grandiose!”

Raising goblets and pitchers, cups and shot glasses, fists and instruments, the creatures howled and roared their delight. The jazz ensemble instantly began once again as if they had never stopped. Life seemed to have frozen for a split second around the man beside her, and life began once again with a simple word from his lips.

“Master,” Seras addressed smoothly, her posture as stiff as any fine Englishwoman.

“Seras,” Alucard nodded, his gaze drifting down to her.

“Oh, so in public I am addressed with my true name?” Her question hung in the air, rubbing against the tense friction between the two. How out of tune the two were with one another. “Sir Integra let you out?”

Alucard’s fingers twitched with annoyance, the only sign of anything besides the bemusement that was a permanent fixture upon his features. “Why, of course. My fledgling departed, leaving me questioning her whereabouts. It was only natural that I come to find her. Lo and behold, I found her conspiring in a grand temple of virtue.”

“Conspiring?” Her word bit. She turned toward him, defiantly jutting her chin up at him. Though she knew better than to act out against him in public with eyes watching and ears listening, she still wasn’t going to roll over and be subservient.  
With a flick of his hand toward her companion, Alucard continued on with mirth colouring his words; “That is what you’re doing, isn’t it? Spilling all of our secrets to some unknown? Seeking advice in… low places.”

Seras’ fingers gripped the table’s edge so tight that her knuckles turned white. A soft crunch of wood and a few splinters from beneath her fingertips clued the elder vampire in on just how much annoyance and frustration he was causing his fledgling.

“You must control yourself, Seras, if you claim to be a paragon of maturity.”

“Oh, and you should talk, you – !”

“Sir, would you like to sit?” The man opposite of Seras had rose and was offering his chair to Alucard. Alucard cocked a brow before snatching the chair away and lounging in it the same way he did with his throne; carelessly, and, in a way, narcissistically.

The man slid into the booth beside Seras. Though their thighs brushed along one another’s, she didn’t dare scoot away. Not with Alucard watching.

“And just who are you? Talking to my fledgling in such a casual, intimate manor?” Alucard inquired, removing his hat and placing his gloved hands on either side of it.

“Intimate? Just what are you suggesting, Master? And don’t speak to him in such a way –“

“Seras,” the man held up a hand, silencing her. She bit her tongue though she wanted nothing more than to smack away the hand – she had developed a dislike for being silenced long, long ago. “It’s alright. Yes, I suppose proper introductions are due.”

The man bowed his head, his arm folded across his chest. “My name is Varfolomei Bersoni. A humble servant before you, oh lord of us no-life. I apologize on the behalf on not only myself, but of also the princess beside me who lashed you with her tongue. Such disrespect is intolerable, Sir. My apologies are contrite and full of candor.”

Seras stared at him, mouth gaping open at his turn in character. Never before had she heard him speak in such a manor; in fact, he was always more or less opposed to the idea of complete sovereignty and anything more extreme that an oligarchy at best. Never before had she heard him be such a… kiss ass. How brown was his nose under proper light, she wondered.

Alucard nodded, his grin widening into that of a mad cackle. “Of course, all is forgiven.” His attention shifted back over to Seras. “My servant has never before been so… rebellious and spiteful. It is quite the turn of character.”

“Master, you have been gone for thirty years. You have missed a great deal.” Her words echoed those that she had hissed the night previous to him within the library.  
“Oh, she keeps saying that. Hm. You seem to know her quite… well. Tell me, how did you two meet?”

“Well,” Varfolomei snuck a glance at Seras. “We met in battle, actually. Well, more of Seras annihilating every and all assailants in her path. I, too, was in her path. She spared my life. Don’t know why.”

Oh, the bastard. Seras knew as well as Varfolomei that he was lying. She wasn’t some one-woman army that tore through an entire brigade of armed creatures and, in a saint-like fashion, spared his life on a whim. No, she was interlocked in battle with several others, neither side finding the advantage over the other. It was a solo mission, so Seras was relying merely on herself and on Pip. A stray bullet, blessed just like hers, ripped through her shoulder, causing her to trip up and – well, the other side got the advantage. Seras had backup plans installed, had other alternatives she had been banking on in times of crisis, but she hadn’t need any of them. Just as they closed in, raining down bullets and throwing knifes of blessed silver, a third party member quickly and smoothly dispatched each assailant. Through the gore and the smoldering wreckage, Seras first came face-to-face with the man with golden skin and ebony locks. In the end, it was he that saved her on a whim.

“Is that so?” Alucard looked unconvinced. “I wasn’t aware that I was in the presence of the modern Maid of Orléans. Tell me, Joan D’Arc, what other acts of chivalry have you committed?”

“Quite a few, actually.”

Alucard darted his eyes towards Varfolomei once again, a mixture of annoyance, distaste, and bemusement waltzing across his angular features. “Is that so? Then at least one thing has remained within my servant. If anything but an annoying human-like quality, it is refreshing to know that time has not bittered her completely.”

“Bittered?” inquired Seras, narrowing her eyes. With a sudden lunge, both men tensed and drew in on themselves, prepared to strike or stop the woman. Her arms flew forward, grasping hold of – DUN, DUN, DUN – her mug. She curled her fingers around the mug, bringing the lukewarm contents up to her lips. Varfolomei sighed, relaxing against the back of the one-sided booth.

For a moment, Seras merely glared at Alucard while he simply stared at her in return, grin widening with each passing second. With a clearing of a throat, the silence was broken. Seras flickered her gaze toward a thin man with a vine tattoo spiraling up his right arm and branching out at his collarbone and neck. He had a bass in hand and a guitar in the other – both electric.

“Hey, Varfolomei,” said the man uncertainly, stealing several timid glances over towards Alucard. He’d most likely only ever heard stories of the king – probably all bad ones, too. “We’re up in five. We need you now to do sound checks… You comin’?”

Varfolomei sent a glance towards Seras, his eyes asking the unspoken question. Was it going to be alright if he left? She nodded, prodding him along with her gloved fingers. He scooted out and straightened his suit jacket before bowing deeply. With a curt nod from Alucard, Varfolomei bided his farewell. Seras followed him with her eyes before he rounded a corner, bass in hand.

“He’s quite the charmer, no?”

Seras jumped a bit, momentarily lost in thought. Of course, he was still here.

“Varfolomei? He’s a friend. An old friend. We go back.”

“Hm. Is that why you were so close to him? I can smell him all over you,” he said, his lips curling in disgust.

“You could say that, I suppose,” Seras snapped back, glowering over at him.

“I could? Close? Seras, you must be careful with who you… affiliate yourself with. Not all creatures of the night are loyal to me – and, to an extent, to you. There will be those who will wish to abuse both you and the power you hold, abducting you to use you as leverage and to use you as a tool of extortion.”

“Extort me? No, no. He’s not like that at all. He doesn’t care the slightest for political power and all the melodramatics attached to it.”

“Perhaps.” Alucard looked unconvinced. He leaned forward, his hands wound together atop the table. He peered over into her mug, sniffing the air. “Blood? And… vodka? Hm. A woman with a real taste for liquor.” In response, Seras tipped back the mug, drinking much of it. Alucard’s impish grin returned in full before dying away into a mask of apathy. Whenever he did that in the past – long, long ago, Seras knew that she was going to be in for a tricky and rather touchy topic. Murdering of innocents? Mask of apathy. Explaining that vampires do not defecate nor do they urinate? Mask of apathy. The talk of war and the death it will entail? Mask of apathy.

“Seras,” he began, clearly choosing his next words carefully. He chewed on a few words for a minute before beginning again; “Seras, you must be careful with who you affiliate yourself with for another reason. There are some creatures of the night – some species – that bond… The bond through being close with another being. We vampires are one of those species. You must be careful with who you are close with because, in time, you shall create a bond that nothing – not time, not distance, not death – will be able to overcome. It – it has another name, another title. It –“

“I really don’t think I need to hear this.” What was he saying? What was he doing? What? What? What? No fucking way.

“Oh, but you do since you insist upon being close with others. Your familiar seemed distraught when I passed him in my departure of the manor, and I agree. There is reason to worry. You still have time before you must choose. But, if you are so adamant, you must know the possible consequences. One being the inseparable bond that being sexually active brings –“

“Master! I’m still a bloody virgin!”

Those around the king and his fledgling fell into stunned silence. A few – those who were younger and knew less of the king and his temper – stared over at the two, mouth hanging open. Seras’ cheeks reddened as she threw back the rest of her drink, trying to drown out her embarrassment. Alucard, across from her, stared at her, face devoid of everything.

This was it. This was how Seras Victoria, sire of the great king of the no-life, was going to die – public humiliation. She was tempted to laugh and try to play it off, she was tempted to get up and simply walk out, she was tempted to vanish from her spot, she was tempted to seep down into the floorboards and descend to some further level of the tunnels. She swore the handle would break off of the mug she held in a vise-like grip. Holy shit. Holy shit.

A sudden note, deep and trembling, struck through the air, catching the attention of all. Another note, half a step down in the scale, was plucked, sending another wave of vibrations through the air. The bass player with the suit jacket and unruly curls tapped his foot rhythmically before descending further on the scale, the guitar player next to him with the vine tattoos chiming in with a swift riff.

The energy that was suddenly coursing through the air, only amplified further by the entrance of the drums, was contagious. Many rose to their feet while others bobbed their heads along to the beat at their tables. From jazz to rock, the tavern acclimated accordingly. From light talk to the pumping of fists and nodding of heads, the conversion was complete.

Seras, in light of the new change in music, was forgotten – as was her blunder. She sighed in relief, daring a glance towards Alucard. Something akin to disappointment coloured his features as he watched his constituents “jam” out. Yes, Alucard more seemed to be the type to attend three hour concertos, not all night rock concerts.

Alucard rose from his seat, returning his fledgling’s gaze. “Shall we?” His expression seemed to ask as he placed his hat over his ink black hair. Seras rose to her feet as well, not particularly in the mood to spend her night being tossed about in a mosh pit. So much for spending time with Varfolomei.

 

Walking down the corridors of the tunnel, Seras kept in stride with Alucard. Neither had spoken since their departure from the tavern. The faint sound of rock music accompanied the light echo of their footfall and the swish of Alucard’s duster. Every now and again, Seras would glance over at her master, bite her lip, and open her mouth to say something, only to close it once again.

After a moment; “Master, I was there for more than company. I was trying to gather people who would and could help with the upcoming – “ oh, how she hated this word, “—war. Varfolomei knows many, many people. He’s older than me, far older than me. He may seem like a fool, but that’s all a part of his act – his façade. He would know of others who would help. Others who could be of use if this threat – these old rulers of the no-life – are truly so powerful.”

“Hm. You look up to him, don’t you?” Though his question was rhetorical, Seras was tempted to answer. “Yes, they are truly that strong. But you needn’t overexert yourself. I – as you often remind me – may have been gone for thirty years, but I still hold favor among many. I may not have been in constant contact due to my… enslavement to Hellsing, but I have managed to prolong the good relations. I am the King, after all. They answer to me.”

“But,” began Seras, skirting around a rotting couch within the room that several halls lead off of, “Is this a war between Hellsing and the old rulers or the no-life and the old rulers?”

Alucard was quiet for a moment, waiting beside the tunnel’s entrance for Seras. “It depends on who is all brought into play.”

Seras stuffed her hands within the jeans of her “incognito” street wear. She found herself lost within thought, turning over possible outcomes. She brushed over the “old rulers” who were shrouded in a layer of vague obscurity. Who were they? Truly? What threat did and could they pose against the world? As life as she knew it?

“This… This is all some game, isn’t it?” Seras mumbled, gazing up at her master. In the flickering light of the torches, he might have been beautiful. But, with the thought of war on his mind, his features were contorted into something dark and vengeful; a predator deciding how to best execute his prey.

Alucard paused, as did Seras. Before them, the rock and earth overhead began to rumble and fall away till the night sky, full of hazy pollution and plump snowflakes, shone through the darkness, barely illuminating the stairs that led up to the alleyway.

“A game,” he mused, lost in thought himself. “Life is always a game, Seras. It just depends on what you’re willing to do – what you’re willing to sacrifice – to win.” He gazed at her for a moment, his thoughts foreign and unreadable. He then looked up toward the sky, starting up the stairs to get a better view. “The world is our chessboard, the earth and forests our tiles, our armies our pawns, our strategy the moves, and fate the deathblow. War is but two minds raging against one another, demanding supremacy – demanding the win. And Seras,” he said, climbing up and up the stairs, “I don’t lose. I don’t. I always win. Always.”


End file.
